Chapter 4

The flowers were perfection. The purple blooms blended nicely with the swaths of green silk hanging on the walls. The swirling white gowns of debutantes, and the black and white columns of dancing gentlemen suited the ball’s color scheme to perfection. Lady Woodward had done well to ask for Lottie’s help. The viscountess had wanted all white. White tapers, white flowers, white everything. And that would have been dull. Terribly so. Thank goodness she’d been wise enough to listen. The gasps of enchantment and sighs of pleasure of everyone entering the ballroom had soothed Lottie a bit.

And she certainly needed soothing. Lord Noble had riled her past all endurance. That. Man. Stalking her down. Insisting she drive with him. Demanding she stop helping his mother. She hated him.

Only a partial truth.

“What puts that crease between your brows, Sister?” Prudence, one of her younger sisters, elbowed Lottie in the ribs. Her hair glinted more blonde than brown in the candlelight, and her blue-green eyes danced beneath a single arched brow. “Let me venture a guess. Lord Noble.”

Lottie straightened the hem of one long glove and then the other. “Is Cora reading tonight?”

Miss Cora Eastwood, a poet and the new organizer of the little naughty library the sisters used to run themselves, had become something of a friend to them all, particularly to Prudence. They’d met her during one of the risky readings she performed at balls during the Season. A select group of ladies would abandon the ballroom, find a pre-appointed and empty corner of the house, and in the darkness listen to Cora read her latest poem. Her words always spoke of longing, spoke of desire, spoke of love. And they always ended tragically.

“Yes,” Prudence said, “naturally. Will you go?”

“No. I must focus tonight. I’m hoping to reduce my options down to one. I’m thinking…” Lottie tapped her finger against her chin.

“Yes?”

“Kisses.”

“Oooh.”

“Precisely.” Lottie surveyed the ballroom. Two of her three suitors had arrived, but they had not yet sought her out. They would soon. She meant to kiss three men tonight. She wanted a new life, children, the opportunity to explore those things she’d read about in books but never been able to practice. Marriage remained the safest way for a woman to explore the erotic. If she found the right man. And Lottie would find the right man.

“What about you, Pru?” Lottie asked. “Has any man caught your eye?”

“Oh, all of them. London is simply teeming with gentle fellows who respect a lady’s independence. In fact, it’s a bit tiring. I wish some beast of a man would toss me over his shoulder and carry me off to his moldering castle.”

“You’re… not… serious?”

“Of course not. The gentlemen of London are singularly uninspiring, neither disposed to toss me over a shoulder or to ask my opinion on parliamentary matters. Not that I have many. Or that the ones I do have are revolutionary. But it would be nice to be asked now and again. All they do”—she cast a long glare over her shoulder—“is stand there.” Behind her stood a group of men dressed impeccably, staring. Some possessed moons for eyes while others seemed confused, as if they’d found themselves in the wrong place and didn’t know how to extract themselves.

“My fondest hope,” Prudence said, “is that your marriage and the twins’ marriages appease Samuel enough that I will not have to marry. Every family with an abundance of daughters needs one permanent spinster to hold the world up. Watch the children, take care of the elderly. You understand.”

“You’re not even considering marriage?”

Prudence tugged on a curl near her ear, her eyes distant. “No.”

“Have you told your suitors that?”

“Every day. But they don’t seem to believe me.” She swiveled her head to the side and glared at a gentleman sidling up to them. “Not tonight, Liston. Be gone.”

He bowed low as he scurried backward. “Yes, my lady. But tomorrow? A ride in the park?”

Prudence glared.

“Apologies, my lady. I should never have presumed.” He disappeared into the crowd.

Lottie chuckled. “That man is terrified of you.”

“And, unfortunately, in love with me. Or so he thinks.”

“Unrequited. Poor fellow.”

“You’re not in love with… him anymore, are you? I thought you’d put that behind you.”

Him. Quinton. “I have put it behind me.” She would, at least. Soon. Probably. “It’s difficult. But tonight, I’ll take very strong steps in the out-of-love direction.”

“Kissing?”

“Kissing. Oh, see, there’s Lord Erstwhile.” Lottie checked her dance card. “He’s scheduled for this one.”

“Do you like him?” Prudence asked.

“I don’t dislike him. And he does not annoy me. And he brought me some very pretty flowers a few weeks ago. Mother’s favorites. He seems to have rather progressive views concerning women. A necessity. And I’ll test his kiss tonight. It should be enough.”

Prudence grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray. “Do you intend to kiss all three men in one night?”

“I’ve not decided yet. I’ll take opportunity where it arises.”

“It’s most likely to arise in a dark garden.” Prudence sipped her champagne.

“Indeed.”

Lord Erstwhile made his way toward her, pushing through the crowd to reach her side. He had the dark-haired good looks of a man who should not be trusted. Yet he’d never been anything but chivalrous and his blue eyes never a bit lascivious. Perhaps he just needed prompting.

He bowed to her and Prudence. “The next dance is mine, I believe.”

She curtsied. “It is indeed.”

“And a waltz. Lucky me.” He held out his winged arm.

She took it, enjoying the strength of his arm beneath her palm, his hand at her waist. Surely, he would be an excellent kisser. Among other things. He whirled her into the dancing throng. One night. Three kisses. As long as she approached the plan, and the men, with caution, she’d know before the night ended who to encourage to propose. Some might think her callous. Most would certainly think her loose. But why did men get to taste when women were supposed to be the… the cheese they were sampling? Unfair. Unjust. She’d had enough. There was no more important decision to make than whom to marry, whom to produce babies with, and she would consider every angle. Especially kiss—

She stumbled, righted herself, ignored the tall-framed man taking up every inch of her vision. Quinton. Waltzing with… Miss Cora Eastwood?

Don’t care. Don’t care. Please do not care, Lottie.

But she did. Because she’d wanted him for so long and now, so very soon, he’d give himself to just… whomever? Yes, whomever. Because he did not care at all.

Erstwhile grunted.

She blinked up at him. “Pardon?”

“I mean no insult, my lady, but you… stepped on my toes.”

“Oh! I do apologize. Woolgathering.”

“I see. You’re particularly pensive this night.”

She glanced at Quinton, who was staring at his dance partner. Her stomach churned. How would she help his mother find him a match if she tossed her tea every time he glanced at another woman?

She must focus on her own purposes. Kissing.

“I’m afraid I feel unwell,” she said. “Would you mind escorting me outside?”

He glanced at the French doors on the other side of the room. “Into the garden?” A crease burrowed between his brows.

“Yes. I fear I need fresh air.”

Without a word, he twirled them toward the back of the ballroom, and in silence, he slipped through the open doors, tugging her along. A waltzed escape. Quite sneaky. She approved. She chuckled as she leaned against the balustrade. Now. She’d reached the moment of action. Alone outside. No one in the ballroom minding them a bit. Clever men and women knew what to do with such moments.

She propped a hip against the marble and threw her shoulder’s back, revealing the full amount of skin available above her bodice. “Many thanks, my lord. I’m feeling better already.”

He leaned beside her, putting several appropriate inches between their hips, not even noticing her shoulders, her neck, her bosom.

She inhaled deeply, helping that bosom rise and fall in a slow rhythm. “The night air is delicious, is it not?”

“I suppose.” He peered into the darkness of the garden.

She sighed, a last attempt to drag his regard to bosom. And eventually, after her toes began to want to tap, he did.

She licked her lips. And finally, his gaze dropped, found what she wanted him to find, ventured lower. Neck bosom, bodice, rising and falling. Would she have to make the suggestion, or would he—

“Lady Charlotte.” He swallowed, his focus still riveted below her chin.

“Yes?” She made the word a breath.

“I have enjoyed coming to know you in the past weeks.”

“As have I enjoyed coming to know you.”

“You are radiant.”

“And you are quite the handsome beau.”

He tugged at his cravat. “I, ah, would like to ask you if…”

“Yes?”

“You would like… I mean… if you would allow me to…”

“Yes?” She fluttered her lashes.

“Would you like me to escort you back to the ballroom?”

Ah. She straightened the sensuality out of her posture. “Yes, I suppose so.” Curses. Kissing did not come as easily as it did in books. But she’d not run out of tricks yet.

He stepped away from her and extended a hand toward the glowing room beyond the doors, inviting her back into the musical crush. She sailed past him. And tripped.

Pretended to. But it was all the same, wasn’t it, whether one was accidentally or purposefully thrown off-balance? A fall came no matter which.

Strong arms caught her, tight and secure. He lifted her to her feet. Her heart raced, and she melted into his warm embrace.

“Oh,” she said, a tiny flutter of a word as she lifted her hand to her chest. His large, strong hands still held her upper arms, firm on the naked skin between her capped sleeve and long gloves. “Thank you for catching me.” She would lift her face slowly, find Erstwhile’s face hovering close, lift her lips to his, then he would demolish the remaining distance and—

“You’re welcome, Merriweather.”

She gasped and lifted her face quite quickly indeed. “You!”

Quinton grinned. “Me.”

She ripped from his hold, searching for—ah, there, behind Quinton. Lord Erstwhile.

He blinked quickly, as if he had dust in his eyes, but he stood straight and proper. “Are you hurt, Lady Charlotte?”

“Not at all.” She beamed, then dropped the smile like a slammed door as she faced Quinton. “What are you doing here?”

“Aren’t you glad I am? Otherwise, you might have broken your nose on the marble. Then all that perfect beauty of yours—poof, gone with a crooked beak.”

“You were dancing.” She searched about for Cora, saw her nowhere.

“And you were falling. Thought you’d be more grateful for my quick rescue.”

She skirted him to stand before Lord Erstwhile. “Shall we return inside?”

He nodded, offered his arm, and they left Quinton outside to do what men did in dark gardens.

Not the man on her arm, though, apparently. Disappointing, that. No matter, there were two more men. Surely one of them would kiss her before dawn arrived.

When she and Erstwhile had rejoined the crowd once more, she said, “I would like something to drink.”

He bowed and left, and she found a pillar to lean against. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. For the briefest amount of time, she’d thought the arms that had caught her, saved her from a fall, had belonged to Erstwhile. They’d felt perfect, stronger than expected. Just right. Then Quinton had spoken and ruined the illusion. Of course the perfect arms had belonged to him. Her head throbbed, and she pressed her fingers into her temples.

“Here you are, my lady,” Erstwhile said in the darkness.

She opened her eyes. He stood beside her, pleasant and holding a glass of champagne out to her. She frowned at it. She should have been more specific. When a headache came on, already pounding at her skull, champagne transformed from harmless delight to haunting devil. She’d needed something else. Anything else. But she accepted it, the glass cool between her fingers.

“I apologize,” he said, “but I must abandon you. I’m engaged for the next minuet with Miss Glour.”

“Yes of course.” She nodded, curtsied.

“May I call on you tomorrow?”

“Please do.” But she did not mean those confident words. He had hesitated to kiss her. And she wanted kisses and more from her marriage. Did his hesitation bode ill for her desires?

He bowed and disappeared, and she did not even bother to follow his trajectory across the ballroom or to see him escort Miss Glour onto the dance floor. She sighed at the long-stemmed glass warming between her fingers. Why not? At least she’d have the delightful fizz before the headache pounded into place. She tipped it toward her lips.

But it was plucked away before she could take a single sip.

She gasped and glared at the man who had appeared like a ghost before her. “Noble!”

He downed the champagne, every drop down his gullet.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Saving you from a headache, Merriweather. You know you can’t drink that stuff.”

“I would have been fine.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” His gloved hand appeared between her eyes, smoothed down the bridge of her nose to the very tip, then froze there. “You’ve already got a megrim. I can tell by the crease between your brows. And you’ve scrunched your nose. I don’t want to see you with a glass of champagne in hand again. Not tonight.”

The audacity of that man. “I shall do what I like.” Thankfully, a footman passed, holding high a tray of the bubbly wine. She snapped one off the tray, downed half of it in one gulp.

He ripped it from her fingers, finished it off. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Neither am I. Leave me alone.”

“Why? So you can lure more unsuspecting men into the garden to kiss them?”

“That is not what I was doing.” How had he known?

“Of course it was. You were rolling your hips and poking your breasts out at him like a trollop.”

She bunched her hands into fists. “Go away.”

“Gladly.” Yet he stepped toward her, the tip of his finger hovering just above her decolletage. “No more champagne.”

He left, and just because she could, she hunted down another footman and took another glass of champagne. But she didn’t drink it. She knew her body well enough, and she’d already been fool enough to swallow half a glass during their skirmish. No more. But not because he demanded it. Because she knew better.

She held the glass tight and searched the crowd for her second suitor, unable to banish Noble’s words. He’d called her a trollop. Horrid man. Horrid everything. Because a woman interested in a kiss, and more was considered a trollop. And because women who were actual trollops were forced to do something dangerous that often ended in illness and death in order to feed themselves.

The acts she had read about in her mother’s books should not be done under duress as a means of survival. They should be moments of beauty and joy in which two individuals shared themselves with one another entirely.

That’s what she hoped it would be like when, one day, finally…

Ah, there was Mr. Pepperidge. A wealthy banker turned landowner. Quite intelligent. He seemed a playful sort, and that boded well for one of her main reasons for marrying. Perhaps he’d prove playful in the bedchamber as well. Tonight, she would test him.

She still held the glass of champagne, and it warmed in her hand as she caught Mr. Pepperidge’s eye from across the room. He made his way through the crowd, shouldering others out of the way, holding her gaze the entire time.

He bowed low and popped back up with a wide grin beneath brown eyes and a mop of brown hair. He had two dimples, one in each cheek, and they seemed so deep his valet must get lost inside them when shaving each morning. “Lady Charlotte, a delight to see you. Is it time yet for our dance?” He arched and glanced at the fan around her wrist, which held the order of the dances as well as the names of the gentlemen who’d secured her hand for each.

“Not quite yet,” she said. “I thought it might be nice to talk for a bit before. To enjoy some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.” Not a lie, and at the moment a bit of a convenience.

“Oh.” His usually affable face folded into a frown. “Should we seek the quiet climes of the garden?”

She nodded, and he escorted her outside without the suave secrecy Lord Erstwhile had employed. Together, they jolted down the stairs and onto the gravel path that threaded through the garden. Their hostess had placed candles, as Lottie had suggested, at intervals along the path, lighting it and casting golden circles into the air around their heads.

This time, she would not roll her hips and push out her breasts. Quinton had made it seem like a distasteful performance. This time, she’d be more direct.

“Gardens are quite romantic, don’t you think?” she asked as they strolled past an early blooming rose bush.

“A common opinion, my lady.”

“It makes one think of—”

“Would you like to kiss me?”

How easy that had been. She’d barely done anything at all, and he’d known just the direction she desired. What a clever fellow. From least likely prospect to most in a moment. “Yes, Mr. Pepperidge, a kiss would be nice.”

He grinned, revealing teeth that were wide and white and big. Then those teeth disappeared behind a set of puckered lips as he leaned forward. He smelled of tobacco and ale, and though the combination made her scrunch her nose and hold her breath, she puckered up and leaned forward as well. Their lips brushed, the merest whisper of a touch, and then he popped away from her.

His teeth appeared again. “Quite delightful.”

Had it been? Had it happened at all?

“Yes,” she said, “quite.”

“I must confess, I have been thinking of doing that for some time now.”

“Have you? I’m glad it is done then.” But was it done? The kiss that Quinton had given her had been so much… more. It had lasted for eternity and had left her an entirely different person when it had finally ended. She’d never forget the feel, the touch, the taste, the smell of him, and now she could not even remember at all what Mr. Pepperidge felt or tasted or smelled like. Except tobacco and ale.

“Shall we return now?” Mr. Pepperidge asked with a chuckle. “I suspect you had the same reason for coming out here as I did.”

She laughed, a weak little thing but hopefully convincing. “You’ve caught me.”

“Do not worry, my lady.” He took her arm and hooked it with his own, then patted her hand. “I still think highly of you.”

“Thank you?” Hopefully, he did not hear the hesitant insult in her voice.

He patted her hand again and escorted her back toward the ballroom. At the bottom of the stairs, she pulled out of his grasp.

“There’s a pebble in my shoe. Will you go up without me?” She needed time to think, time to consider her options, her new information. Her hopeful group of three now seemed entirely less hopeful.

“Let me help.” He bent his knees as if to kneel.

“No, no! It would not be proper for you to see my stockinged feet.”

He bounced back to upright. “Quite right. It is good to know your curiosity does not lead you too far astray.”

If only he knew how far astray she’d really gone.

He bowed and ran up the steps as if he’d forgotten her between one breath and the next, and she sat on the bottom step, cold glass hitting her knee. Oh. She still held the glass of champagne. With the kiss and everything else, she’d entirely forgotten. Surely one more sip would not hurt her head too much, and she rather needed the fizziness to dull the disappointment. She lifted the glass, and as soon as it hit her lips, a warmth settled beside her, and the glass was ripped from her hand. Again.

In the candle-haloed darkness, the glass rose, and the liquid disappeared down Quintin’s gullet.

She growled. “You barbaric beast! Do that one more time, and I’ll—”

“What, Merriweather?” He sighed. “Punch me?”

“Yes. Or kick you in a much more sensitive location.”

“Ladies aren’t supposed to know about sensitive locations. Did he kiss you?”

“That is none of your business.”

“You’re right.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and chased the champagne down his throat with some likely much more potent liquid. “My guess? A rock could kiss better than Pepperidge.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he hid the flask away once more.

She would not hit him. She would not hit him. She would be that proper lady he claimed she was not. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with ladies, choosing a wife? Here I am doing all the work to find a husband, and what are you doing?”

“Saving you from yourself, apparently.”

She stood, smoothed her skirts.

He clenched the wine glass in his hand and also stood, making her feel small once he’d gathered himself to his full height. He made it up three steps before he swiveled around, brandishing the wine glass at her as if it were a rapier. “No more of this.” He wagged the glass up and down. “And no more kisses and dark corners. It’s not safe.”

What did he care for safety? He left her alone. Would she always be alone? God, she hoped not. She grew tired of it, so deadly tired of it.

But not all hope lay like a dropped kiss in a dark garden—lost. One suitor remained, and while he may possess an unfortunate name, she could survive such things if he proved himself valuable in other ways, particularly the ways of the bedroom, the ways of lips and tongues, the ways of bodies during the secret hours of the night.